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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28836285">I Hope You're Moving On</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/crygiankie_trash/pseuds/crygiankie_trash'>crygiankie_trash</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>RuPaul's Drag Race (US) RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/F, also jan and jackie make like a brief cameo, side mention of HallDoll</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 13:40:18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,936</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28836285</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/crygiankie_trash/pseuds/crygiankie_trash</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>So when do breakups stop hurting? Do you just let go? // Yet another Crygi songfic</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Gigi Goode/Crystal Methyd</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>I Hope You're Moving On</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>You guessed it, another songfic written at 4am and unbeta'd because I'm stupidly hormonal and heard the song on the radio coming home from work and had to tap out some angsty shit. Love me. Validate me. All that shit. </p><p> The song is Sword from the Stone by Passenger, so like for the full sensory experience, I recommend listening to that while you read. Preferably the Gingerbread Mix version.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>Well how ya doing darling?<br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>How you getting on?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Any horses running.<br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Worth betting on?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>  The man’s tobacco stained fingers flick through the paper, huffing under his breath before looking up, a highlighter between portly fingers as he highlights the form guide before looking up at the grainy tv tucked into the corner of the dingy bar where she works. The bar is near empty, and Crystal wipes the counter to no avail, the stains across the bar already set in years before she started working there, and will continue to be even after she’s left, one stain more stubborn than the rest, and she remembers Gigi’s bright eyes gazing at her across the bar with a glass of shitty house red as she waits for Crystal’s shift to be over, leaning across to a table. “Hey Len, what’s a good horse that I can put $10 on?” before knocking her glass over in excitement when her $10 bet yields them a $100 win, pulling Crystal out of the bar. “Come on, we’re getting large McDonalds meals tonight!” and sure enough, she’d made good on her promise, the two of them lobbing fries at one another in the backseat of Gigi’s hyundai before coming together in a tangle of limbs and mouths that tasted of big mac sauce and salt with a window lever somehow managing to wedge itself into a place it definitely shouldn’t have gone, and Crystal’s teal bra making an appearance two weeks later between Jaida’s two fingers when she is rummaging for her dropped phone between the seats.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span> How’s the weather down there? <br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>I hope you’re keeping warm.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> An instagram photo pops up on Gigi’s feed. A wide bay window complete with a window seat with lashings of rain streaking the clear glass and she’s instantly taken back in time to her own memories, of mussed red curls and patchwork blankets, a mug of herbal tea clutched between paint stained fingers. “Come on Geege, I bet my raindrop is gonna beat yours” as wide brown eyes chase the rivulets of water running down the window with rapt attention, the way Crystal’s head threw back every time she laughed revealing rows of pearly teeth, the tautness of her neck muscles and the way Gigi’s lips found them, tongue dipping into the valley between her collarbone and neck, the mug falling to the floor in seconds adding another stain to the carpet, the telltale goosebumps raising across Crystal’s body as she kisses up toned thighs, scraping her nails across tattooed ribs, the window in question fogging up from the heat of their bodies, the rain outside forgotten as they leisurely fuck their way through a rainy Thursday, toes curling in white socks, fists clenching in oversized sleeves of flannel shirts as they reach the crescendo of carnal pleasure over and over again. </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>How you feeling sweetheart? </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span><br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Are you moving on?</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span><br/>
<br/>
</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>Nicky’s hands brushes at the dark hairs that mat against Gigi’s sweaty forehead, her pale eyes narrowing in concern. “Geege.. Come on Sweetie. You’re coming home with me and Jaida, at least till you feel better okay?”, as she speaks strong pale arms wrapping tightly around Gigi’s slender frame and getting her to her feet as Jaida opens the door for them, and helps them into the car. The engine starts smoothly, and Gigi’s head drops onto Nicky’s shoulder, the French girl raising a hand and petting the tangled hair soothingly before Gigi can feel a tear beading out of the corner of her eye whimpering quietly. “Nicky? I want Crystal” a tiny sob racking her exhausted body as she vainly fights the exhaustion pressing onto her eyelids and forcing them closed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span> Are you sleeping okay?</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span><br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Or do the nights go on and on?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> Crystal rarely slept at night, often claiming herself as a ‘self confessed nocturnal creature’, and Gigi had lost count of the times she’d woken up in the middle of the night to a cold bed and padded across the worn carpet to find Crystal deep in a painting, or her hands streaked with charcoal, fingertips greasy with oil pastels, pressing a kiss to wild red curls. “You okay babe?” Her own voice husky with sleep, taking in the sandalwood scent of her lover before Crystal gives a nod, adjusting the makeshift toga made from the homemade quilt at end of the bed. “Just couldn’t sleep. I’ll be in soon” before leaning back for a quick kiss and going back to her work, the colourful artwork filling the page before her until the sunlight starts bleeding through the gauzy curtains painting the room in a myriad of soft pastels and she returns to the already warm bed, curling around the angular limbs of her girlfriend, plump lips pressing a gentle kiss to a sharp shoulder as Gigi reaches out blindly, refusing to open her eyes mumbling a quiet ‘about time’ before falling back to sleep, a look of contentment softening her features. Though now when Crystal goes the bedroom? The sheets cling to her, the initial chill never quite wearing off, a boomerang pillow on the side where Gigi used to sleep that she clings to, the smell of vanilla musk shower gel still clinging to the pillowcase albeit faintly as she falls asleep in the dappled sunlight pretending even just for an hour that the warmth is Gigi. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span> I hope you’re eating well.<br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>I hope you’re staying strong.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> Another lettuce leaf being pushed around her plate, another brunch gone to waste, a reheated tv dinner as netflix loads up on her laptop. Gigi’s sick of it, sick of the same bland food, the stone in the pit of her stomach when she tries to eat. The way her stomach turns when she goes past a small mexican restaurant reminding her of nights of ‘Taco Tuesday’ or the smell of nachos filling the room on a Sunday afternoon when they couldn’t be bothered making a proper dinner, the way Crystal would throw the contents of their pantry into a crockpot with a cut of something she’d found at the butchers. Everything these days just lacked flavour. Vibrancy, the taste of tomato based sauce being too much to bear, the creaminess of a vanilla ice-cream now cloying and sweet, the smoothness of milk chocolate melting into her mouth and suffocating her. But she keeps eating, forcing something down. “Look after yourself Geege, remember to eat okay?” Crystal’s final words to her linger with her, pressing into her brain with each raised forkful to her mouth, wishing the bland macaroni was fresh baked bread, pumpkin soup, or the casserole that Crystal steadfastly refused to give her the recipe of.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Cause I’m fine then I’m not.<br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>i'm spinning around and I can't stop.<br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>I can’t do this alone. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span> Crystal’s first exhibition should have had her on the highest of highs, a room full of people adoring her work, compliments, friends and family beaming with pride. But standing in the room? Crystal feels like she’s stuck in a wave, being flipped upside down, and spinning around, and around where usually Gigi would be behind her, an arm around her waist keeping her afloat from being pulled under by her own anxiety with a quiet word, a gentle squeeze, lips pressing against the shell of her ear murmuring instructions on how to breath again, but Gigi isn’t here and there’s nothing to ground her. Jan’s hand rests on her arm gently, sweet brown eyes gazing up at her questioningly. But she wishes the trimmed nails painted a soft shade of lilac belonged to someone entirely different. Of tapered fingers with shockingly scarlet polish. And she forces a smile back onto her face when Jackie joins them, her own concern matching Jan’s before Crystal makes a visible effort to not grimace. “I’m fine guys, just a bit overwhelmed” before giving a nod. “Should I show you guys the oils yet? You haven’t seen them right?’ and the night goes on like every other one before it, and she swallows the feeling down until the next wave hits in the dead of the night and she sobs into her pillow as if her heart is freshly broken, the wound still jagged and torn. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>For time flies, then it’s so slow,<br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>I'm up and down like a yoyo.<br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>I can’t do it on my own</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> Some days Gigi feels like she’s over Crystal, she can go a day, two even without thinking about her. Goes on a coffee date with a girl named Dahlia that she knows won’t go any further, goes to a club with Symone and Rosy. Goes to the dog park and gossips with Rubber, and other times she’s back where she started; lying on the sofa sobbing into a cushion because the smell of perfume hit her when she least expected it, the fact she ordered a hot cross bun when they first hit the shops because it was Crystal’s favourite, when she pulls out a hand painted mug to make some tea, or the bigger moments like when she comes home brimming with exciting news and realises there’s no-one there to share it with. It’s a never ending rollercoaster, and she’s too scared to get off too used to the familiarity of being consumed in heartbreak. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And I’ve tried and I can’t pull the sword from the stone.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> Gigi is everywhere in the house they used to share. She’s the colour of the petunias that grow in the pots by the front porch, the pearl grey of the bedsheets, the unused airfryer that collects dust in the corner of the kitchen, the toothbrush that still sits next to the basin. She’s still everywhere and Crystal can’t bring herself to remove her. Not just yet. Another day becomes another week, to a month, to a season. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>How are your mum and dad? <br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>How’s your brother too?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> Gigi’s hand hovers over the phone, Thanksgivings were always at the Methyd household in an unspoken agreement between them, an ongoing tradition of her and Crystal arguing over how much luggage they’d need, if they should get a hotel, though usually they’d end up curled up in Crystal’s childhood bed muffling each other with their hands as their fingers touch and tease, gasps smothered with each others lips as they rock together under the watchful eyes of the posters scattered around the walls. Lunch always being a rowdy affair with the scraping sounds of spoons against plates, the clink of serving spoons against mismatched tureens brimming with foods of rich flavours. Does she call them? Wish them Happy Thanksgiving? It feels strange, her first Thanksgiving in 7 years without them. Did Wyatt get the job he wanted? How is Crystal’s dad doing? Is Crystal’s mother still spending hours in the kitchen and shooing out anyone who tries to help her? Her finger hovers over the call button, indecisive before putting her phone down and walking into the lounge room pulling the fluffy pumpkin coloured throw around her hunched shoulders and switches on the coffee machine staring blankly into a matte black mug as she waits; a lone tear streaking down her face. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>My folks are holding up.<br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>My sister’s pulling through.<br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>And both the cats say hi.<br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>I know they miss you too</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> Being home for Christmas is a change. Thanksgiving with the Methyd’s, Christmas at the Goode’s. It was just how it was. It’s Christmas morning, though not even the sun has made it’s appearance just yet. The olden wooden swing is familiar, a staple piece on the Methyd’s front porch though the old orange cushion has been replaced by a green one that seems to be stuffed with memory foam. Hazy brown eyes gaze across the assorted jungle of plants in the front yard as she takes another hit from the tightly packed joint clutched between her fingers, holding the smoke in until she gets the telltale burn at the back of her throat, exhaling the smoke towards the pristine sky. It doesn’t feel right, it doesn’t feel like Christmas and she’s not sure when everything will feel normal again. Or if she’ll ever feel like a whole person. Another hit, another exhale and she watches the lit ember turn to ashy charcoal and drop to the ground before looking up as two ginger balls of fluff come out of the cat flap and settle next to her. Tic-Tac’s head tilting as she looks around before nosing against Crystal’s thigh with a small questioning ‘Mew?’, the hand not occupied by the blunt reaches down, blunt nails scratching at the sweet spot under the collar before murmuring into the open. “....I know Tic. I miss her too’</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Cause I’m fine then I’m not.<br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>I’m spinning around and I can't stop.<br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>I can’t do this alone.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Rosy gets married in April, a blushing bride in a vision of ivory tulle and pink lipstick. The ceremony classically beautiful, flowering centerpieces in the middle of ivory tablecloth, a never ending fountain of champagne casting a golden glow, and in the middle of it? Gigi feels nauseous. She makes her toast, to love, to happiness, to finding that one person. But she feels empty, standing at the bar, she waves off someone;probably a friend of Caleb’s trying to buy her a drink and joins Symone at the side of the dancefloor preparing for Rosy and Caleb’s first dance, and her heart jumps in her throat as couples seem to materialise around her. It hurts and the champagne glass in her hand only chills her palm compared to the way Crystal’s hand used to warm it. She doesn’t want to be alone. She wants to be in the middle of the dance floor, her arms wrapped around Crystal, she wants Crystal’s head resting against her shoulder or to be spun in a circle in the middle of the dancefloor. She wants so much and it always feels out of reach. Like she’s chasing an illusion of what she used to be. What</span>
  <em>
    <span> they </span>
  </em>
  <span>used to be. Her feet carry her out of the building as if they’ve got a mind of their own, the pale blue dress swishing around her calves as she leans against the brick wall, tears streaming down her face, her hand fumbling for her clutch, unlocking her phone and pressing a single button before bringing it to her ear, hand shaking not at all surprised when it’s picked up within two rings. </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>For time flies, then it’s so slow.<br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>I’m up and down like a yoyo. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> A half finished dress in a stunning shade of burnt orange still hangs off a mannequin that sits in the corner, a desk still strewn with embroidery thread, a jar of mismatched buttons, and paper patterns takes up a corner of the room. Gigi’s sewing room. It still goes untouched, gathering dust bunnies in lieu of the coloured fabrics that used to line the walls. The same room where Rosy had been fitted for her dress, where Gigi made Crystal stand while she pinned something into place, made her walk across the room and swish a skirt just so. She stares at the room for what could have been a minute, or what could have been an hour. Honestly she’s not sure these days of what time is, or what day or week it is. Is it February? Maybe April? It’s her birthday soon. She thinks. Maybe. Some days she soars high, riding the creative waves that consume her. Figures in ink, graphite, charcoal. Acrylic paints smears across canvas, delicate watercolours bloom from her fingers, faceless girls turn away from her in harsh strokes of oil. Sunlight touches slight upturned noses, big dark eyes gaze back at her from her sketchpad. Some days she swears she’s close to getting over it. Other days she breaks her own heart over and over again and tears smear on thick paper and run down her cheeks in rivulets. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> Her hands clasp a mug, white with a bunch of different colour dots on it, raising it to her mouth to sip at the chamomile and honey concoction inside, before her phone rings, the contact name glaring across the screen and she reaches for it instinctively picking up without hesitation; the mug falling to the floor with a dull thud that matches the way her heart hammers against her ribcage, the tea soaking into the old carpet beneath her toes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I can’t do it on my own<br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>See I’ve tried and i can’t pull the sword from the stone.</span>
  </em>
</p><p><br/>
<span>“I need you” the words are uttered through the phone, whispered desperately like she if she speaks too loud, the spell would be broken. “I thought I’d be able to be without you, but nothing is the same. You’re everywhere. In everything. Still. Why can’t I get over you? Do you still even love me? Think about me?” Her words keep spilling over each other before lapses into silence, the only sounds between them is the shallow breathing from both ends of the phone. Another tear falls, dropping to the cement under her. “.... Say something. Anything?” Her voice shakes, quieter than before a broken plea leaving her lips “Crystal.. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Please?</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Please say something. Talk to me", she inhales shakily, lapsing into silence allowing what feels like an eternity to pass between them, the only sound between them being that of background traffic; Crystal’s voice shakes slightly, clearing her throat of the tickle that’s been building since Gigi started talking. “.... I just..” before her voice gives out cracking harshly and she coughs and tries again. “....Come home Gigi. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Please?</span>
  </em>
  <span>” </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>... If it helps. I hate me too. </p><p> Thanks for reading babies. Feel free to smash that kudos button or comment, even if it's just to yell at me. &lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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